An Epilogue, of Sorts
by KSCrusaders
Summary: "It's not a good story unless the hero dies." -Varric Tethras, 9:31 Dragon A set of short stories about the Champion of Kirkwall's last days. Spoilers for Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition, major character death. Repost from AO3.


**An Epilogue, of Sorts**

 _By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

 _Revolutionary_

Anders knows it's pointless to argue. Nothing short of the Maker Himself could change Natale Hawke's mind once it's set. He loves that about her...most of the time. But not now, with the rebel mages decimated and the south in shambles. She is racing back into the heart of the storm, and he can't stop her.

He can't even follow. Not this time.

"You know, you could help me look for spare socks instead of brooding," she says. "Skyhold is up in the Frostbacks. It'll get cold at night."

"I won't help you walk into the Chantry's trap."

She stops packing to glare at him, arms folded in the gesture of defiance he knows so well. Even the sudden, sharp jolt of anger is better than the guilt that has consumed her since Varric's letter arrived. Anders glares right back, with the force of two spirits united in purpose.

"Varric would have warned us if it was a trap." Listening to her certainty, he can almost believe it. "He looked a Seeker in the eye and lied to keep her off our tail. He wouldn't sell us out now."

"What if he's being played too? The Chantry's wanted your head on a spike for three years, and now they want to be friends?" The blue glow starts at his fingertips, and he pushes it away with tremendous effort. He can't reason with her if he himself is impervious to it. "So many of our fellow mages died at Redcliffe. If _I_ were leading the Chantry, I would see this as the perfect opportunity to kill you."

"Then I'm lucky you're not Divine. You'd look terrible in that hat."

"Don't." The crack in his voice wipes any trace of a smile from her face.

Despite everything, he can't help but admire her composure. The core of steel that has carried them through so many trials. Her expression softens, but she refuses to back down.

"Anders, what do you want me to say? If Corypheus really is alive-"

"He isn't your problem any more!"

"You know he is."

It's the same argument, over and over in circles. He knows he's getting nowhere, but he can't bring himself to voice the real reason she can't leave.

Then again, he doesn't have to. She knows him too well. She leans her staff against the entrance to the cave, comes back to the bedroll, and wraps her arms around him. He can feel her warmth, even through the layers of chain and leather.

"If it is a trap," she whispers, "I'll kill everyone in that damn castle to get back to you. I swear it."

His heart clenches inside his chest. "And if it isn't?"

"I'll kill Corypheus. He can die again, and again if he has to. And then I'll come back to you."

"You can't promise me that."

Her lips press against his forehead, and her smile is just as he remembers it from a decade ago.

"Sure I can." She stands, and resumes the search for her socks. "I make that promise every day."

* * *

 _Inquisitor_

Whatever Clariel Lavellan expects from the Champion of Kirkwall, it isn't the iron-cast silhouette who stands unmoving on Skyhold's ramparts. Varric's book never mentions how she keeps her staff in arm's reach, or how she spends every waking moment in her armor. Or the cold grey eyes that never stop looking into dark corners and half-closed doorways.

Even the Inquisition's hardened veterans avoid meeting those eyes, and Commander Cullen is strangely silent when Clariel questions him about his previous encounters with the Champion. The name "Hawke" carries a burden of fearful respect that "Lavellan" does not. The faithful skirt around the Champion when she strides through the courtyard. The new recruits avoid the tower where she's been staying.

So when Clariel makes her lonely way up to the ramparts one evening, she takes care to make sure the Champion hears her footsteps. She clears her throat, and waits for Hawke to turn and see her, standing with a blanket around her shoulders and two steaming mugs in hand.

"Thank you," says Hawke. Her smile does not reach her eyes, even after a few sips of mulled wine. "You and Varric...have been very hospitable."

The emphasis isn't lost on Clariel. "I'm sorry," she says. "Everyone's still on edge since we lost Haven."

Hawke's gaze turns on her, and Clariel forces herself to look back. The Champion towers over her, tall even for a human. Her skin, her hair, her armor and eyes gleam pale in the moonlight, like the marble statues in Chantry gardens. Marble that betrays nothing, that looks down and takes her measure from on high.

Finally, Hawke looks away, gazing into the depths of her wine.

"Take it from me, Inquisitor: don't blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. Eventually, enough things will _be_ your fault."

Clariel blinks, startled. "That's...not very encouraging."

Hawke laughs, and Clariel has never heard anything less like mirth in her life. It scrapes against her ears, bright and brittle as shattering glass.

"It's the truth. No one else will tell you that...well, maybe Varric would. If you're going to play the hero, you should know what it's like."

Clariel looks out at the points of torchlight streaming up the mountain path. Refugees come even by night, drawn to Skyhold from Haven and beyond. All these people, braving cold and danger and the unknown...all because of her. Because they think she can save them. Because they believe she's something more than flesh.

"I don't want to play the hero," Clariel whispers. "I never wanted this."

She's not sure why she admits it to Hawke of all people. But just for a moment, she sees something break in that face of marble and glass.

"Neither did I."

* * *

 _Champion_

Natale Hawke is in her element. A mage, physically in the Fade, master of blood and bone and spirit. So when Alistair draws his sword, it's the easiest thing in the world to brush him aside. When Inquisitor Lavellan starts to protest, it's the easiest thing to freeze her in her tracks. They stagger against each other, and those few moments are all she needs. She calmly walks toward ten thousand eyes, ten thousand Nightmares waiting for her.

"Sorry, Anders," she whispers.

She owes more apologies than she can ever hope to give. To Carver, the brother she always has to leave behind. To Varric, the loyal friend waiting on the other side of the portal. Even to the young Inquisitor, who has to save the world Natale left in flames.

Her eyes meet Inquisitor Lavellan's for the last time, and she catches the bright sheen of tears before the binding spell breaks. The elf seizes Alistair's arm and begins sprinting for the portal. One of the Nightmare's infinite legs lands in their path, but a crack of lightning from Natale's staff drives it back.

Ten thousand eyes turn on her. They are her mother's eyes, her father's, her sister's. And between blinks, they are the Arishok's, Meredith's, the feverish gazes of hundreds of templars. They press in, caging her in an endless forest of spider legs and accusing stares.

 _I see you_. _I_ _ **know**_ _you._

But Natale Hawke laughs in the face of Nightmare.

She'll see her family soon. She can apologize to them in person. And as for the rest...it's far too late to give a damn.

She shifts her grip, and the hidden blades in her staff bite into her own flesh. Her blood comes first in a trickle, then a rush. The Fade burns red around her, and for a moment, she wonders if this is what it feels like for Justice and Anders. Imbued with only one deadly purpose, heedless of everything else in the world.

 _You are a_ _failure_ , and the voice in her head is now a chorus of all the people she's killed, all the people she couldn't save. _You are_ _ **nothing**_ _._

 _I am the daughter of Malcolm and Leandra Hawke,_ she answers in a rush of fire.

Blood cracks the ground around her, and the demon's legs scramble frantically for purchase, slipping into gaps that close like vices. She no longer feels the claws that pierce her armor, or the venom hitting her skin. There is only the steady stream of life for power, the red maelstrom forcing the demon back into its lair. Step by step, inch by agonizing inch.

 _I am the Champion of Kirkwall._

Lightning this time, channeled through her own body as she drives the tip of her staff through one of the eyes. The cold flame, her father called it, and cold it is when the Nightmare's eyes begin to burst like bubbles, showering her with sticky black ichor. But the fire burns it all away. Fire cleanses, like Anders always said. Fire purifies.

 _And I will be damned before I let you win._

The Nightmare rears, and she feels her feet leave the heaving ground. Darkness presses at the corners of her eyes, and the power coursing through her ebbs to a sluggish beat. But when she sees the flash of green, and hears the Nightmare's furious howl, she knows it's over.

It's finally enough.

* * *

 _Storyteller_

Varric Tethras waits by the fireplace. It takes hours for the great hall of Skyhold to empty. Hours of Orlesians gossiping, couriers hurrying all over the fortress, Cole mistaking cheese for cookies. Varric eventually steers the kid toward the garden. He's actually useful there, though his habit of talking to the trees gets some strange looks.

It's well past midnight before he's alone with his thoughts. He's got a decanter of fine Orlesian red, a plate of frilly cakes, and a blank sheet of parchment laid out before him. His own little kingdom. Any other night, he could fashion worlds on a whim.

But tonight, he has a letter to write.

 _Dear Blondie_

He stops, balls up that sheet of parchment, and tosses it into the flames. Not Blondie. He hasn't been "Blondie" for three years. Varric pours himself a glass, worrying the tip of his quill between his teeth.

It's not the first letter he's written, but it is the most futile. Because he knows how this story ends, and no letter will change it. In his heart of hearts, he's known how it ends for a while now, and just looked the other way.

 _Anders knows all about hiding; it's an instinct, ingrained in him, even older and more primal than Justice. But the Inquisition's reach is long, and its scouts are canny._

 _Wherever he's gone to ground, whether it's Ferelden or Antiva or some random border town, it always plays out the same. The letter waiting by his bed when he wakes. The puzzled expression that turns to worry when he sees Varric's handwriting. He'd recognize it anywhere, even after three years on the run. He opens it with a snap of his wrist, nearly tearing it in his haste._

 _After a few lines, the letter turns to glowing blue ash in his grasp._

 _It's not even fair to call it crying. It's a bone-deep howl of grief, and in that moment, it wouldn't matter if every templar in Thedas battered down his door. But it doesn't last for long. As he collapses to the ground, Anders' sobs ebb away. His shaking stops. And when he lifts his head, his eyes glow lyrium-blue._

Varric shudders despite the warmth of the crackling fire, and pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he's back at the Amell estate, enjoying a drink with everyone. He can smell the rum, hear the clink of glasses, see the way Hawke's eyes glitter with mischief. It's too much, and when he feels the lump in his throat, he forces himself back to the sheet of parchment. The rest of the story unfolds before him on that blank, empty expanse.

 _Anders is tireless, relentless. Food, water, and sleep mean nothing to him now. There is no reason to hide, nothing left to protect. And so he moves, always in the direction of western Orlais and Adamant Fortress._

 _But he never makes it. There are pockets of red templars in northern Orlais, and he still remembers his old purpose. The hatred burns just as bright when he sees the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on their chests. Now, with no one to hold his leash, he loses himself to it. He will not go quietly into the darkness. The red lyrium makes beasts of these men, but they are children compared to him. He is cleansing fire and judgment, the hand of the Maker Himself. Blue and red clash, a devastating cacophony of magic._

 _He finally stands alone, frozen for an eternity with five templar swords through his chest. Standing, then falling, all in a silent ocean of red._

"Shit."

Varric reaches for the decanter again, nearly toppling his inkwell in the process. This time, he doesn't even bother pouring himself a glass.

"You wish they'd never met."

Wine goes flying everywhere when Cole appears in the other chair, red droplets peppering the parchment.

"You wish he'd never thought of the expedition," Cole whispers. "But you can't go back to that day, and neither can they. It lingers, leads you to all the stories, even the ones you don't want to tell."

Varric fishes for his handkerchief. "Kid, didn't Ginger tell you to stop appearing out of nowhere? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"No, I didn't."

"It's a figure of speech. I'll explain when you're older." He looks at Cole and sighs. "Don't you have bees to pet or cookies to burn?"

"You needed me."

Those three words are the snowflakes that start an avalanche. Varric drops his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking. But he doesn't make a sound, and he turns his face so Cole won't see.

"Varric, it wasn't your fault."

Cole's hands pull the quill from Varric's death grip. "The stone is cracked, split, jagged. The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do."

It takes a long time for Varric to lift his head, and longer for him to say anything. They stare into the flames for what feels like hours before Varric finally takes a deep breath.

"Kid, I introduced them. Hell, I encouraged them. Six years I spent, keeping the Coterie off Blondie's back, and for what?"

"It wasn't your fault," Cole insists, and there's an edge to his wispy voice, one that Varric's never heard before. "A laugh, light enough to ease the weight. 'Varric, when did I ever give you the impression I was turned off by crazy?'"

He hates the truth that rings in Cole's voice. Truth isn't something he really does. But it's enough to jolt him back to his senses. He looks down at the stack of parchment, crumples the wine-stained sheet on top, and tosses that into the fire too. Cole returns his quill without a word, then vanishes into the darkness.

It's not a good story unless the hero dies.

He stoppers the decanter, shoves aside the plate of cakes, and begins to write.

* * *

A/N: I needed to work out a sudden batch of feels over my Hawke's death, and this is the result. Constructive criticism appreciated. Thanks to BioWare for the Dragon Age games, and to all the wonderful VAs who brought the cast-and their angst-to life.


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